


Two Can Play

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Humour, M/M, Massage, POV Stiles, Possessive Peter, Scott is a Good Friend, Secret Relationship, Snark, Stiles Stilinski is a Little Shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 03:30:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7558429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Stiles decides to put an end to this. Peter wants the pack to know? Fine. But <b>Stiles</b> will not be the one to let the crazy-eyed zombie cat out of the bag. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Can Play

**Author's Note:**

> For the kink prompt: “Your muscles are in knots. Better let me rub you down.” And, as per usual, I warped it. This had so much sexy-kinky potential, and it ended up being a competition between Stiles and Peter to see who could be the bigger little shit. 
> 
> I don't even know anymore. And I can't even blame it on the shoulder-devils this time. 
> 
> Happy Friday!

 

Stiles knows exactly what Peter’s doing. It’s the same thing the smarmy bastard’s done at every pack meeting for the last four months: try to get Stiles to out their relationship. The asshole thinks watching everyone lose their shit will be the entertainment highlight of the year.

Never mind that Derek might kill him _again_. Or Lydia, for that matter. (And, privately, Stiles hopes that if his boyfriend-slash-lover-slash-personal-werewolf does get murdered, that Derek is the one to do it. Derek will have mercy. Lydia . . . won’t.) It also completely ignores how Scott will react. And yet, Peter persists in dropping hints with less and less subtlety, flirting openly with him, and making little comments in front of the others that have him struggling not to blush bright red.

The thing is, though . . .

Two can play that game.

So rather than rise to the bait, Stiles decides to put an end to this. Peter wants the pack to know? Fine. But _Stiles_ will not be the one to let the crazy-eyed zombie cat out of the bag.

So he rolls his sore shoulder and gives a very sincere wince when it pops loudly. Scott’s head snaps up across the room. “Dude.”

He throws a cheeky smile at his best friend, who may shake his head, but nevertheless gets up and plops next to Stiles on the couch. Scott slips a hand under his shirt to poke around—and promptly loses the longsuffering look. “Fuck, man, your muscles are in knots.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Side-effect of research binges, sleep deprivation, and running for my life,” he deadpans.

Scott shoots him a glare that is so reminiscent of Melissa, it’s a little unnerving. “Shirts off.”

He tries not to seem overeager, but god _damn_ , he’s missed when they used to do this. “Back rubs?” He’s already wrestling himself out of his flannel, but he still sees Scott roll his eyes.

“You’d _better_ let me rub you down.”

He only sees Peter’s eyes flash because he’s looking for it. Otherwise, there’s no reaction. But Stiles knows Peter, okay? So he knows how huffy dude gets when the pack scents start to layer a little too thickly over Peter’s own on his skin. He also knows that he and Peter have been taking things slow, mostly at Peter’s insistence, so all this skin Scott’s about to touch?

Peter’s never even laid eyes on it.

He pauses when it comes to his tee. “How d’you want me?”

Scott gives him the look. The fond, sarcastic, cut-the-BS look that he only ever breaks out around Stiles. “That’s a stupid question. We both know you turn to goo.”

Stiles grins, tugs his tee shirt off, and then flops down on his belly. His face is buried in the couch cushion, so he can’t watch Peter’s face, but he can still hear. And he’s listening very, very closely—which is why he catches Peter grinding his teeth so as not to growl when Scott straddles his legs.

Erica whistles. “Well that’s a sight I’d pay to see.”

Stiles bites his lip on the moan he wants to make when Scott pushes the heels of his hands up either side of his spine. It’s the only reason he doesn’t laugh—or say something sarcastic—when Derek grunts, “The hell are you two doing?”

Scott’s hands are still doing those long pushes up his back, so Stiles has no desire to answer. Which Scott knows. “We used to do this all the time when we were younger, but kinda fell out of the habit? Which, now that I think about it, was pretty dumb, considering.”

Stiles swears he can _hear_ Derek’s eyebrows furrow. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Scott’s weight shifts for a minute, before he starts feeling out where the knots are in Stiles’s shoulder blades. It makes his fingers tingle pleasantly. “I’m rubbing his back.”

“Why?”

There’s a long pause. Stiles knows that Derek isn’t fond of being touched, even though werewolves are tactile creatures, but he _also_ knows Derek isn’t aware Scott was a cuddly bastard even before he gained literal puppy ears.

When Scott speaks, he’s frustrated, almost angry. “What do you mean, ‘why’? He started doing this for me when I was a kid, when my asthma made it hurt to breathe, and I started doing it for him after the anxiety and panic attacks started getting bad, because it _helps_. Why is the idea of helping someone so hard for you to understand?”

Stiles reaches back and pats Scott’s leg. “S’okay, buddy,” he mumbles.

“It is not!” Scott snaps. “Derek, here—”

Several things happen, then. One of Scott’s hands leaves his back, which is not okay. At all. Things were just getting good. Then, there are two hands on his back again, but there’s no way the second one is Scott’s—the touch is too hesitant for his best friend. Given the way Peter snarls like a fucking chainsaw, Stiles is pretty sure the hand in question is Derek’s.

When the hands and Scott’s comforting weight disappear as he’s hauled off the couch and against Peter’s chest, he knows he’s right.

The snarl tones down to an idle rumble as Peter’s hands roam across his back, trying to cover up Scott and Derek’s scents. It’s kinda cute, in a ‘hrr, me caveman’ way, and Stiles would definitely be objecting to it, but there are _hands kneading his back_ , so he’s a pretty happy camper. 

Also, Peter smells nice. Much better than the couch cushion.

Stiles knows that they’re outed, knows that shit is about to hit the fan, but the proximity to Peter plus getting to feel his boyfriend’s hands all over his bare skin feels good. He’ll peel himself away from those deliciously broad shoulders in a minute. Maybe two minutes.

But then Erica claps her hands, crowing, “Pay up, boys!” and his minute is cut short.

He squirms away from Peter, and catches the shirt Scott throws him. “Who’s paying you and why?”

To his surprise (which. Why is he surprised?) Lydia raises one perfectly-sculpted eyebrow at him. “Because neither of us are stupid, and knew that the two of you were,” she pauses, mouth pursing, “an _item_ , shall we say.”

“But because boys are stupid, the others swore up and down that it wasn’t possible. So we made ‘em put their money where their mouths are,” Erica finished, collecting twenties from Derek, Scott, and Isaac.

“But, how—?”

The look Lydia gives him is so dry, it makes Death Valley jealous. “Please. The two of you are not subtle.”

Peter’s got his disgruntled face on, because Stiles keeps dodging all attempts at reeling him back in. And is fully clothed again. “And why, exactly, is Boyd exempt from paying you?” Peter snaps.

Boyd snorts. “Because I’m not stupid enough to bet against the two of them.”

Stiles turns back to Scott, more worried about his reaction than any of the others’. Scott rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’ve known you forever. I knew you were seeing _someone_ , I just didn’t want it to be Peter. Since it is, though?” Stiles nods and holds his breath, promises, bargains, and platitudes lining up in his brain, preparing to be deployed. “Get him to do something about your back, yeah?”

Which. What?

“What?”

Scott turns to Peter. “He’s a mess, and I didn’t get to finish. So either take him home and work those knots out, or let me, but half-assing it just means he’s gonna be sore as hell tomorrow.”

Stiles is so busy staring at his best friend and being grateful that Peter succeeds in plastering his wolfy self to Stiles’s back. “I think I’ll do that.”

Stiles slaps a hand over Peter’s mouth, because there was going to be more following that sentence and none of it was going to be good, and smiles at his best friend. Then he drags Peter away and stuffs him unceremoniously into the Jeep, because he is owed a backrub, and one from Peter is too good to turn down.

(And if Peter happens to like the way he melts into his bed, the way he moans as his muscles go soft under Peter’s hands, that’s just a bonus. If Peter happens to like it so much that he finally gets over himself and lets their dicks get involved, Stiles won’t tell.)

(Except that he totally will, because it means he won.)


End file.
